


Hold Me Closer, April Dancer

by diadema



Series: Excerpts (From The Vault) [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: The newly-formed United Network Command for Law and Enforcement arrives in Istanbul... where they meet a mysterious, young American woman tending the bar at Sinem's nightclub.





	Hold Me Closer, April Dancer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bronte_Esperanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronte_Esperanza/gifts).



> For a new writer in our fandom whom I've seen brightening up a number of comments sections. It's great to have you, Bronte. Thanks for your positive energy and for helping to bring the community closer together. :)  
> ***  
> This fic is another one from my Story Vault. I wrote it about a year ago on a notepad in screenplay format (just the dialogue and a few action lines). Rediscovered it, typed it up in Final Draft, then decided, why not make it narrative prose instead, and thus, here we are. It takes place immediately after the events of the film and is very much an excerpt. I do have some loosely-defined ideas to expand on it, but it can (and is meant to) stand on its own.
> 
> Hat tip to Festiveviolet31 for naming this one for me. Big thanks, as usual, to Festiveviolet31, Somedeepmystery, and SydneyMo for their endless encouragement and insight. <3  
> ***  
> An important note: April Dancer here is (probably?) about as close to her TV canon counterpart as Illya and Solo are. From what I understand, her character was largely constrained by gender politics and did more of the feminine-coded spywork, while her partner, Mark Slate handled all the physical stuff. So, this is just my own take/origin story on another spy in the UNCLE 'verse. Purists, you have been warned, but I do hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Comments always appreciated. <3

 

The latches on his case yield with a whisper of a click. Illya carefully lifts the lid, eases it to fall noiselessly back on its hinges. His gaze roves over the surveillance equipment inside—all perfectly in order. _Exactly_ as he’d left it in Rome.

He hardly remembers packing.

Illya’s mind had been on other matters, racing ahead, rehearsing the inevitable Goodbye, running in parallel to treacherous, traitorous dreams of a life, of a _happiness_ not meant for him. _What if he had_ really _been an architect,_ he’d start to think. _Would he—_

But he wasn’t, and so Illya had had to check himself, pinch himself awake to _remember._ To remember who he is and who he belongs to and who he’d be putting at risk if he were ever foolish enough to forget it. Could he put his mother in danger over this? Could he put _Gaby?_

But he couldn’t just let her go.

Despite the bloodless thrumming in his hands, the blistering chaos inside him, Illya had fallen back on the cool, practiced efficiency of his training. His default. The factory settings of the machine that made him.

Looking down at his handiwork now, he can see that each device has been cleaned and coiled and stored. Everything in its proper place.

_Is he?_

Illya exhales heavily through his nose as he considers this. Somehow, a man named Alexander Waverly—of British Naval Intelligence, he recites automatically—had convinced the KGB _and_ the CIA to loan out their top agents to him. What power he must possess, what leverage he might have over both agencies, Illya isn’t sure, but there is something to be said about this joint venture.

He just can’t bring himself to put a name to it. This seemingly impossible… _partnership_ that seems to violate every creed he has ever stood for. Trusting the Americans, working with a German—a German _defector_ —and taking orders from an Englishman. All while serving no flag but the lofty banner of the Greater Good.

The mission in Rome had been a success. Maybe one that _couldn’t_ have been achieved without their help. It makes sense then, he reasons, to keep the team together. Why mess with a winning formula? It may only be temporary, but hasn’t he already prepared, hasn’t he already _lived_ the ending once? He’d said his goodbyes after all.

 _Not all of them,_ that small voice whispers. Not really. His hand stills on the earpiece he hadn’t realized he’d been fiddling with. Illya pauses, tempted to look over his shoulder. To catch sight of a bugged engagement ring and the flash of dark, cautious eyes—infinitely inscrutable since Waverly’s pronouncement just three hours ago.  

Instead, Illya lets his gaze drift to her luggage, the cases he had picked out for her sitting untouched at the foot of her bed. She will be sleeping less than a meter away from him tonight… and any number of nights after.

He swallows at the thought. Illya looks instinctively at his watch to ground him, fingers brushing idly over the glass face.  It still overwhelms him to have it back. He had had to set it one hour ahead to match the local time—the same time, it so happens, as it is in Moscow. By now, he should be trudging back to a cold, empty apartment, not sharing another upscale hotel room with a woman who is as precious as she is _dangerous_ to him.

 _Gabriella Teller._ The word ‘partner’ feels stranger on his tongue somehow than ‘fiancee’. He had warmed to the latter almost instantly, is still working on accepting the former, on reconciling everything he has learned about her with everything he thought he knew.

Illya repeats both words to himself, comparing them individually against his memories of her, trying to suss out the truth in the haze of covers and wish fulfillment. He ignores the treacherous spike in his pulse, the sudden stretch of his lungs when his thoughts cycle _without fault_ to three, unfinished kisses.

Something practical and uncomfortably like self-preservation rears its head, casting his mind in shadowed doubt. _Would it have been better,_ he thinks, _to have made a clean break after all?_ To keep clandestine tabs on a blinking light, to tune in to a particular frequency, to hope, to _pray_ that if their paths ever crossed again, it wouldn’t be on opposite sides of a mission?

But, as Illya steals another glance to the bed beside his, to a pair of expensive, designer heels carelessly kicked off, he knows that he would only be lying to himself to believe that. Ever since his father was taken from him and sent to the gulag, Illya knows he has been living on borrowed time. If he has learned anything from that experience, it is how to fashion eternity from every moment.

He will work hard and _earn_ his right to stay here, on this team, in this organization. He will be a credit to the KGB, to his country, and he will make himself absolutely indispensable to Commander Waverly.

He shrugs. It would be the professional thing to do, would it not? And _professional_ is exactly what he needs to be right now.

Illya closes the case, smooths a hand over the familiar leather. He doesn’t look up as he addresses the American. “Don’t forget, Cowboy, we are not here to have fun tonight.”

“No,” the man says slowly, “but that _doesn’t_ mean plans can’t change.”

“We have mission.”

“And I believe _mine_ begins with a brunette at the bar.” Solo pushes off from the table he’d been leaning against and saunters past him, calling out to the third member of their team. “I hope you’re saving some of that schnapps for me.”

“I’ve already poured you a glass.”

Illya whirls around at the sound of that voice: dark and feminine with a hypnotic lilt. His movement is too quick to be casual, too clumsy to go unnoticed. Gaby—his throat constricts around her name—meets his eyes from across the room. She nods at the open bottle in her hand where she’s been fixing drinks at the sideboard. “Illya?”

He shakes his head on reflex. “No. Thank you.”

“Mother Russia doesn’t approve of such debauchery,” the American announces. He reaches out to take the tumbler from her, and Illya can’t help but notice that she’d been over-generous with her pour.

His breath escapes him, caught somewhere between a sigh and a scoff as she tops off her own. He will have to be extra vigilant to compensate for her tonight. Not that he particularly minds. It should bother him, but it doesn’t. Illya finds he _wants_ the little chop shop girl to have this—within reason, of course. To be just another young woman out on the town with her fiance. Maybe when they turn in for the night, she might even want to dance, or better yet, _wrestle_ with him again.

As if reading his mind, Gaby lazily swirls her drink, pins him with a look that has his mouth going dry. “All the more reason to indulge then.”

Before Illya can possibly fathom a response to _that,_ Cowboy is grinning, turning to face him with his glass raised high. “To your excellent health, comrade,” he toasts.

Illya rolls his eyes and resumes his preparations. There is the sharp clink of glassware and the echoing enigma of just _what_ Gaby had meant.

 

* * *

 

Their destination tonight is a nightclub located in the cosmopolitan heart of Istanbul. Far removed from the more historical districts, it it no less steeped in grandeur. _Sinem’s_ is surprisingly modern and distressingly exclusive; it caters to the rich and powerful from both near and far.

Rumor has it that the place is a front for more… sinister dealings, though if Waverly’s intelligence is correct—and Solo, so far, has no reason to suspect it isn’t—they’re looking at more than just their average neighborhood crime ring.

With the name _Vinciguerra_ thundering in his ears, Solo takes a slow, lingering sip of whiskey. He had foregone his customary Scotch tonight for a different brand, one that _isn’t_ laced with the purr of a British alto or sizzling and crackling with bright, blue sparks.

Solo rubs his wrist self-consciously before he catches himself, upping the wattage on his smile as he looks up. He unintentionally meets the eyes of his bartender. The young woman’s brows furrow immediately—is that concern he reads there?—and he has to wonder just _how far_ his mask has slipped for her to see it.

Or, a much less cheerful thought, if she had only seen right through him.

Solo tosses her a reflexive wink before turning his attention to a less... _perceptive_ audience. Over the shoulder of the attractive blonde beside him, he watches his partners stride past, Gaby’s hand nestled in the crook of Peril’s arm. He affords them the barest flicker of acknowledgement, a tiny tip of his chin, as they wind their way to the back of the lounge.

He is midway through an anecdote about a greased pig, an art gallery, and the Spanish ambassador’s three, unruly daughters when the KGB agent arrives, face set in a grim line that does not soften with the bartender’s smile.

“Two vodka tonics please,” he mutters.

The young woman—April, according to her name tag—pauses briefly, then, “Oh. Nothing for yourself, sir?”

Peril begins to flounder, and Solo can hardly blame him for it. The question has his own voice tapering off, the story long-forgotten. He raises a hand, silencing the blonde mid-word when she prompts him to continue.

“No, I—” the man shakes his head quickly, “—no. Thank you.”

A brisk nod, a warm smile. “I’ll bring them right out.”

The Red Peril beats a hasty retreat then, shoulders drawn up to his ears, metaphorical tail between his legs. Solo can _almost_ be amused by the sight if the whole interaction hadn’t unsettled him so deeply.

He murmurs a vague apology to his companion and leaves her cold, drifting to take the Russian’s place before the bartender. April peers up at him expectantly as she reaches to grab a glass.

“That’s quite the assumption you just made,” he said. “What gave him away?”

A bottle of _Stolichnaya_ thuds heavily in front of him in response. “No Russian worth his salt would have ordered this mixed. Believe it or not, there _is_ a right way to drink vodka. And trust me. It’s not in a highball.” She shrugs, offers him a secretive, dimpled smile. “That’s why I’m going to help him.”

“By... making him a highball.”

“Rum and coke,” she corrects, tapping her nail on the proper glass. Solo watches her work for a moment before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially over the counter.

“I’m pretty sure that’s grenadine.”

“And _I’m_ pretty sure I know exactly what I’m doing,” she retorts. April garnishes the drink with a flourish, adding first a lime wedge and then a cherry on second thought. She smirks to herself for the joke, before turning that smile on him. “There. Mission accomplished.”

“And this?” Solo asks, indicating Gaby’s drink.

“It’s mostly tonic. Wouldn’t be fair to let his _fiancée_ have all the fun tonight, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” he concedes. He frowns, though it hardly should surprise him at this point. “Fiancée?”

“She has a ring on and he doesn’t. I’d have thought that’d be the first thing you would have looked for, _especially_ when she’s positioned so strategically across from you.”

He glances over at his partners. “Clearly, the lady is spoken for.”

“Has that ever stopped you?” She tilts her head to the side, appraising him a moment. “You want to know my theory?” she says softly. April doesn’t wait for him to answer. “You didn’t look for a ring because you didn’t have to. You already knew that she was _spoken for.”_

“And what would make you say that?”

“The sightlines, among other things.” Her brown eyes dart around the room as if to confirm her theory. “Between the three of you, you’ve got all the exits and entrances covered.”

Solo draws back a fraction of an inch as April sets the finished drinks before him. She lowers her voice to just above a whisper. “Look, whatever you and your partners are doing here, nursing the same glass all night won’t do you any favors. At least this way, you won’t be raising _quite_ so many eyebrows.”

The woman holds his gaze steadily, a quiet smile touching her lips. “This should be enough to begin with. I’ll keep the drinks coming, but it’s up to you three to do the rest.”

April makes to leave the bar when Solo stops her. He sighs, musters up his own smile and grabs the two glasses. “Please. Allow me.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, I did not order—” the confusion in Illya’s voice cuts out sharply when he looks up from the drink to their server. Not just any server either, Gaby notes. _Solo._ “What are you doing here?” he hisses. “You are supposed to be keeping an eye out for Neyzi.”

“Like I said: plans change.”

“Is that why you’re playing waiter?” she snipes over the rim of her glass. The American arches an eyebrow at her, painfully unimpressed, though there is something oddly… knowing in his expression when she grimaces at the taste.

“More or less,” he says. “I came to deliver a friendly word of advice.” His gaze flicks between her to Illya. _“Step it up.”_

Gaby’s head snaps up in indignation. How could he _possibly_ have found fault with them already? They haven’t even been here five minutes. She expects Illya to be similarly incensed, to back her up, perhaps, but when she looks at him, she finds the opposite.

Her gaze narrows at him, though he is quite studiously avoiding hers—even more so than when he’d first returned from the bar. She had chalked it up to nerves, the awkwardness of being alone together after everything that had occurred. After everything that _didn’t._ “Illya.” There’s a warning note to her voice that has him finally meeting her eyes. “What. Happened?”

The Russian hems and haws until Solo intervenes. “What _happened_ is that our bartender saw through him in an instant. Through _all_ of us actually.”

As if on cue, the young woman looks up from wiping down the counter to grace them with a token of a nod. Gaby hesitantly nods back.

“I see you found your brunette,” Illya mutters to Solo. Gaby glares at him, and he flushes, ducks to take a sip of his drink. He immediately makes a face. “What is this.”

“I _believe_ it’s called a Roy Rogers. After the 'King of the Cowboys'. He sings too, you know.”  

“Capitalist propaganda,” the Russian scoffs after a long pause. It seems like the appropriate response, the safest bet for the situation. Gaby smirks into her glass. Illya doesn’t know Roy Rogers any more than she does, but _clearly_ , he is someone worth looking into.

She plucks the offending drink from his hand, careful not to jolt for the brush of his fingers against hers. Gaby ignores the way he looks at her then, the way his expression seems to soften. She takes a sip of the sugary liquid. A short hum. “It’s certainly better than the flavored _water_ you ordered for me.”

“That is because you wanted a cocktail,” he grouses, straightening in his seat. “Every good Russian knows that—”

“I don’t think you’re appreciating the situation here.” Solo waits until he has their full attention. “Our barely-legal _bartender_ had us made within seconds of walking through those doors. Makes me wonder what else she might have noticed.”  

Gaby frowns. “You think she knows more than she’s saying.”

“Or she’s saying more than she knows. Either way, I intend to find out.”

“I hear interrogation makes excellent first date,” Illya snarks. He gives her a muted smile as he wrests the drink from her hands, and Gaby has to concentrate very hard on appearing unaffected for it. The words “first date”, in particular, cause a sudden warmth to bloom in her chest and the nerves to dance along her spine.

She shakes it off.

“Speaking from personal experience, Peril? Or is that some strange, Soviet fantasy of yours?”

Illya’s fingers begin to tap—a tic she has quickly come to recognize. Before she can think better of it, her hand moves to cover his own. _It’s what a fiancée would do,_ she tells herself. _And besides, this is what Solo wanted, isn’t it?_

A half-truth. There is a part of her—one that Gaby isn’t ready to acknowledge—that _wants_ to do this for him. Not just for a cover, but—

“You _did_ ask her though?” she blurts out, anxious to escape that line of thought.

The American sighs, aggrieved, and pulls up a vacant chair to join them. “The thing is,” he drawls. “She said no.”

 _“No?”_ Illya repeats. He looks far too smug for his own good. Only, this time, Gaby won’t grudge him for it. “I want to hear _exactly_ what she said.”

A flash of movement has Gaby nodding in the direction of the bartender. “I think she might have changed her mind.”

The two men follow her gaze, incline their heads in greeting when the woman arrives. She hands Solo a fresh drink. “Refreshed it for you.” Gaby is surprised to find the accent is an American one. It’s subtle though, colored by the local dialects. “You _really_ shouldn’t leave these unattended, you know.”

Solo seems to hesitate before accepting. He takes a brief sip and sets the glass aside, an odd note in his voice and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Guilt gnaws at her when she realizes why. She had already apologized, but no words could undo the damage, especially when it was still so fresh in his mind. She starts to withdraw her hand, to retreat into herself, when Illya stops her.

His palm is a large, cool weight that anchors her. Beneath it, her thumb continues to brush softly over Illya’s knuckles, and she wonders, distantly, just when she had started. Illya is watching her so intently, so _openly_ that she barely registers when the bartender leaves—only when Solo calls after her.

“You dropped something.”

He stoops to retrieve a handkerchief, holds it up for her inspection. The woman smiles, but makes no move to take it from him. “Why, yes,” she says sweetly. “I believe it was my standards.”

And with that pronouncement, she is gone. Solo carefully unfolds the fabric where a note has been artfully concealed within. Gaby cranes her neck to read over the American’s shoulder.

 _9am. The Republic Monument._ _Don’t_ _come alone._

“Huh,” Illya deadpans. “So, it’s _not_ a date.”

Solo tucks the message away, points a finger at the both of them. “Not another word.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am working on rebuilding my writing stamina/confidence as I set about tackling my Next Ambitious Project by focusing on pieces that I've either already started and/or which are smaller in scope. Thank you for your patience, your understanding, and most importantly, your support.
> 
> This fic came about because I REALLY wanted - needed - Illya to be served a Roy Rogers. It's a mocktail (coke, grenadine, and a Maraschino cherry) that's been around since the 1940s, so named for the "Singing Cowboy" who was a known teetotaler and whose career spanned a good fifty years. :D
> 
>  
> 
> **In a gift economy like AO3, I am sharing this work freely for the enjoyment of the fandom. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, but not expected. If you are inspired to acknowledge or engage further with this story and its creator, I thank you. If you are here to simply sit around my campfire and share your time and interest in my writing, I thank you as well.**


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